


Shadow Dancer

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Episode Related, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-14
Updated: 2000-01-14
Packaged: 2018-11-10 10:21:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11125152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: The end of "Strange Bedfellows" leaves RayK dancing alone in his apartment.  A look at what he might have been thinking of at that time.





	Shadow Dancer

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Shadow Danc

 

 

Disclaimer: They're not really mine, no matter what I may claim in my  
less reasonable moments. Alliance actually owns them. I'm just borrowing  
them for a little while.  
  
This story is rated PG or so, mild suggestion of m/m between Fraser and  
RayK. Related to the episode "Strange Bedfellows". Major  
Stella warning.  
  
Note: I kind of fiddled with the Lhasa song in the first little bit.  
I added a trumpet, mostly because I like trumpets, also because I was  
listening to a good, soulful trumpet solo at the time of writing that  
part. Just . . . pretend it's the song on the CD _before_ the song  
used on the show!<g>  
  
Thank you kindly to Maria Jackson, for reading over and catching any  
of the more glaring mistakes. Feedback is, as always, worshipped. My  
e-mail address is  
  
Shadow Dancer  
by Tara Blue  
  
With a click, the sleek drawer containing a single, shining CD slid into  
place. The muted * _whrrrr_ * of the disk spinning was drowned out  
by the first soulful notes being played on a wailing jazz trumpet. The  
notes themselves were high and clean and sad, floating through the open  
apartment.  
  
Tossing the empty case onto the top of the stereo, Ray stepped back,  
shrugging out of his grey suit coat as he went. The trumpet was joined  
by a singer, a woman, whose crooning voice wrapped around the trumpet's  
soaring tones, throaty where the other was cutting and pure. Ray tossed  
the coat over the back of the couch in the center of his living room,  
sending his holster and gun after it. His shoes were kicked off and  
sent skittering under the kitchen table.  
  
The smooth duet of trumpet and voice washed over him, pulling him, seducing  
him. Ray allowed a small smile to quirk up the corner of his mouth as  
an idea came to him. It was silly . . . but he gave in. Behind the  
closed and locked doors of his apartment there was no one to mock him  
for it. Standing up straighter, he held out one hand, as if inviting  
someone to take it. Alone in an empty room, he led a phantom partner  
to a clear spot on the floor. A quick tug of his arm reeled his phantom  
in, and suddenly . . .  
  
His arms were full of Stella again, and they were both kids again. He  
could feel the pinch of his dress shoes every time he shifted his weight,  
and the slightly too-short-too-tight suit coat pulled at his shoulders  
and exposed his bony wrists.  
  
Stella's hair was held back by a light blue headband that matched her  
pretty, Sunday-school type dress. The white trim of lace at her wrists  
and neck matched the dress shoes on her feet and equally white nylons  
on her legs. Ray thought she looked beautiful. He always thought she  
looked beautiful.  
  
All around them were other pairs. Each boy, including Ray, had their  
partner's hand in one of theirs and the other lay against their partner's  
waists. Ray was terrified and exultant and terrified by turns. His  
arms were full of _Stella_ , the untouchable girl of his dreams.  
He hoped that the palm pressing against Stella's wasn't sweating as much  
as he thought it was. Everyone was just standing there, poised, waiting  
for the music to start.  
  
And there. An old fashioned waltz, filled with stringed instruments  
like violins and breathy instruments like flutes. It was time to move.  
The bare wooden floors of the old dance studio creaked as they began,  
and over it all the scratchy voice of the dance instructor called out  
"1-2-3 1-2-3, step lightly, 1-2-3 . . ."  
  
The other boys all had sour looks on their faces and they held their  
bodies stiff as they woodenly clomped out the steps. They didn't want  
to be there, would rather be outside in a scruffy pair of jeans playing  
street hockey or something. Their mothers were probably forcing them  
to go to the dance lessons every Saturday afternoon in the hopes of turning  
their rough and tumble sons into gentlemen.  
  
With Ray, it was different. The suit chaffed and restricted, and he'd  
much prefer to be wearing a comfortable pair of jeans himself. But he'd  
put up with the clothes because that's what it took to be here, with  
Stella. When she had told him her mother had signed her up for dance  
class, and how she was worried about not having a partner, Ray had been  
struck with an image. An extremely unpleasant image.  
  
His Stella. In the arms of another boy. Dancing and laughing and smiling  
up through her eyelashes in that way that she did with him, only with  
another boy.  
  
It had made Ray feel sick. He had gone straight home and begged his  
mother to sign him up for lessons as well. And now he had an armful  
of Stella and everything was good. It was great. It was _greatness_.  
  
The waltz faded into something else, something faster with an heavier  
beat. Ray couldn't make out the words, but it didn't matter. He could  
hear the beat, _feel_ it even. Gone was the dance studio filled  
with uncomfortable preteens in starchy dress clothes. In its place was  
a large, almost garishly decorated school gym filled with excited, half  
sloshed nearly-adults.  
  
High school graduation. His, not hers. Stella was still in his arms.  
  
Ray wore a black suit - not a tux, no matter how hard his mother and  
Stella had both begged him to wear one - and Stella wore a black dress.  
The tow of them, with their golden beauty set off by the stark black  
clothes, had turned a few heads on the way in, but ray was unconscious  
of his own good looks. All he was aware of was her. The dark, silky  
material hugged her slender frame in a way that took his breath away.  
All he could think was * _She's so beautiful, so perfect, and - for  
some strange reason or due to an act of God - she's _mine.* He knew  
that Stella wouldn't have appreciated his possessive attitude, seeing  
it as oppressive or something. But it wasn't like that. As much as  
she was his, he was hers, and that's exactly the way he wanted it.  
  
They were just standing, quietly rocking to the music, when the first  
strains of a familiar song came skipping across the gym. An upbeat,  
rock style variation on a classical style waltz. The song was one they  
both knew, one they had often danced to over the years.  
  
Pulling back a little, Ray cocked one eyebrow in silent query - shall  
we . . . ? The mischievous light flashing in Stella's eyes was all the  
answer he needed.  
  
* _1-2-3, 1-2-3 . . ._ * The scratchy voice of their old dance teacher  
echoed in the back of Ray's head as he lead Stella through the light  
steps they both knew so well. * _1-2-3, 1-2-3 . . ._ * A flick of  
the arm spun her out, then a quit tug brought her back to be held flush  
against his body. Closer than would have been approved of, or even allowed,  
in the old dance studio. In perfect harmony they moved, stomachs and  
hips and chests rocking against each other. Never a misstep, only smooth,  
confident movements on both their parts.  
  
As far as Ray was concerned, this was as good as it got. Him and Stella,  
doing their thing. Dancing. His world narrowed and contracted until  
there was only enough room in it for her and him. He didn't even notice  
the other dancers pull back and stop to watch, except to register that  
there was more room at his disposal. Room he made good use of.  
  
Around and around the expanding clearing in the crowd they danced, gracefully  
gliding across the floor. Finally, the song came to an end, and Ray  
finished by deeply dipping Stella, who lay relaxed in his arms even though  
she was lying nearly parallel to the floor. She trusted him not to drop  
her, not to let her get hurt. That trust made his heart swell up in  
his chest and emotion catch in his throat. As he always did when faced  
with her trust in him and love for him, he silently repeated the vow  
he'd first mentally made when they'd both been kids. He hadn't actually  
said it out loud yet, but over the years, he'd often recited it in his  
head.  
  
* _You're mine, Stella, and I'm yours. I'll love you forever, if you'll  
let me, and never let anybody hurt you. Ever. This is the way it is  
meant to be. We were born for each other. I love you._*  
  
He repeated that last part aloud, still slightly marvelling that he had  
been granted the right to.  
  
"I love you, Stella."  
  
Suddenly, the sound of applause and cheering broke the sweet bubble that  
had surrounded them. Ray became aware of the fact that he and Stella  
were standing in the center of a large clear patch on the floor, surrounded  
by his school mates, most of whom had slightly surprised looks on their  
faces. Here and there, Ray could pick out the dumfounded faces of his  
friends. Ray could feel a slight blush staining his cheekbones; he hadn't  
ever told anyone about the dance lessons he had been taking for years.  
It didn't fit in with his tough guy image.  
  
Ah, what the hell, he thought. This was his grad, and he wasn't going  
to see most of these people ever again. It was worth a little embarrassment  
to be on the receiving end of one of Stella's sweet smiles.  
  
The applause, and the gym, faded away. Instead, he was standing in the  
first apartment he and Stella had ever shared as a married couple. It  
was a dump, but it was all they could afford with Ray on a rookie's salary  
and Stella in law school.  
  
Ray was sitting on the couch in the small living room dressed in a battered  
pair of jeans and a ratty t-shirt, faded and soft with age, the sleeves  
rolled up to just under the ball of his shoulder. He'd recently been  
put on the night shift, and although it had taken a while to get used  
to, he and Stella had developed a routine that worked out well.  
  
It was almost time for Stella to get home from school. In fact, Ray  
though he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock over the mellow  
crooning of one of his favourite blues singers. The music was emerging  
from the one luxury the young couple had indulged in - a large stereo  
system that took up nearly a whole wall in the living room all told.  
  
Yes, there was the sound of the front door opening. Stella was home.  
Ray levered himself out of the depths of the sagging couch cushions and  
went to meet her.  
  
Giving her a quick peck on the lips, Ray moved around behind her to help  
her out of her heavy winter coat. She looked tired and strained, more  
so than usual. Exams were approaching, and he knew that Stella was near  
to buckling under the mountain of work her professors had heaped on her  
shoulders. He wished he could help her with it, but all he could do  
was be there for her and help her unwind every once and a while.  
  
"Hey, Stel, how were your classes today?" he asked, hanging  
her coat on a hook as she moved to put her heavy book bag down in the  
living room. After Ray left for work, she would continue studying as  
she had all day.  
  
"Long," she answered, smiling tiredly at her husband. She  
raised a hand to her temple and rubbed it in the way that Ray knew meant  
she was coming down with a tension headache. His brow furrowed with  
worry; she was working herself so hard and was getting so stressed out  
that she has been getting tension headaches practically every day. But  
he knew the best way to help her relax.  
  
As the music swelled with a jaunty blare of brassy instruments, Ray began  
to shuffle forward, swinging his hips to the rhythm. He reached out  
and drew Stella in, hugging her tight against his body with one hand  
and massaging the back of her neck with the other. He could already  
feel the tight muscles beginning to loosen a little. Together they swayed  
gently in the center of the room, not trying anything fancy, just feeling  
the music and each other.  
  
Still using the one hand to hold her close, Ray moved the soothing massage  
down her spine, finally settling at the base of her back. She had long  
since relaxed totally, and had even begun to slightly arch into the caresses.  
The catching of her breath under his ear told Ray that what had begun  
as a comfort dance was turning into something else. For them, dancing  
often turned into _something else_. A quick glance at the clock  
told him they had time enough.  
  
In small, rocking steps he began to dance her backwards, towards the  
bedroom that was as small as all the other rooms of the apartment. With  
her lips brushing against his neck with every breath, he felt as much  
as heard her small chuckle when she realised what he was doing. As they  
passed through the open door, Ray bent his head to kiss her, his long  
fingers tangling in her blond hair.  
  
The cramped, dingy rooms of their first apartment faded into a brightly  
painted, open room that served as both living room and dining room in  
one. Ray sat, his lanky body folded into an improbably position, in  
the single piece of furniture remaining from their early days of marriage,  
an over stuffed, badly worn, incredibly comfortable brown leather armchair.  
The light, tumbling notes of one of Strauss' waltzes washed over him  
as he stared at the bent head of his wife. Stella was sitting on one  
of the new, straight backed chairs at the new, softly gleaming kitchen  
table. The table, built large for the express purpose of entertaining,  
was nearly hidden beneath the piles of paper and files spread atop it.  
Stella was working late. Again. Working at home. Again.  
  
The sensitive skin between his fingers tingled, remembering the feel  
of the soft, slippery hair that shifted and slithered over that bent  
head. He didn't get to play with it much anymore. In fact, he didn't  
get to play with _her_ much anymore. Or even at all. Between his  
promotion to detective, and her promotion to Assistant State's Attorney,  
it seemed like that when one wasn't working, the other one was. There  
just wasn't any time to be together anymore.  
  
Although it would be tough, Ray was more than willing to _make_  
the time, if Stella would only meet him half way. At one time, he would  
have been able to confidently say that she would be willing to exert  
the effort. But those days has passed, and now he honestly wouldn't  
be able to guess what she'd be willing to do.  
  
* _I'm losing her_ *  
  
The thought suddenly appeared with crystal clarity in his mind, causing  
his stomach to knot in anxiety. He couldn't lose her. Ray wasn't sure  
he even knew how to live without her anymore, knew how to live without  
loving her. He realised now that he had been feeling her drifting further  
and further away, and just hadn't been willing to admit it to himself.  
  
He felt a sudden compulsion to rise from his seat, go over to her, and  
hug her tight against his body as though to physically prevent her from  
leaving him.  
  
Restless, tormented by his thoughts, Ray did rise, but not to give in  
to his urge to cling to Stella. Instead he began pacing the spacious  
living room. Their new apartment was much more luxurious than any of  
the ones they'd had during the frugal years of Ray being a rookie cop  
and Stella in law school. He made a pass around the outside of the room,  
idly running his fingers along the frames of paintings and pausing to  
fiddle with the various expensive knick-knacks Stella had begun collecting  
and placing on shelves. After the third cycle around, he abandoned the  
walls and began weaving his way through the furniture, rubbing the knobby  
fabric of the couch, leaving smudged fingerprints on the clear glass  
coffee table.  
  
Stella looked up, an annoyed look on her face.  
  
"Ray!" She used the tone of voice that Ray had come to know  
as her 'obey or die' voice. He stopped pacing and stood staring at the  
stereo system that still held a place of honour in the living room.   
The 1-2-3, 1-2-3 rhythm called to him, tempting him to dance.  
  
His thoughts, formally zipping around inside his skull like shiny, drunken  
dragonflies focused with a snap ray almost expected to be audible.  
  
Dancing.  
  
If he and Stella could still dance, then he hadn't truly lost her yet.  
If they could still move together in that zone of perfect harmony where  
every step was in unison and perfect, where dancing was somehow more  
than just a pattern of movements, then it would be okay. If all that  
was possible, then there was nothing wrong that couldn't be fixed with  
a little time and effort, no gap so great it could not be bridged.  
  
Filled with purpose where moments before he'd been aimlessly pacing,  
Ray strode across the living room, crossing the point where carpet became  
hardwood, signifying the beginning of the dining room. At the sound  
of his approaching steps, Stella raised her head, the fine strands of  
hair that had held Ray's attention a brief time earlier sliding out from  
behind her ear and into her face. With an impatient, unconscious movement  
that to Ray was pure Stella, she shoved the wayward hair back, ruthlessly  
securing it behind her ear.  
  
"Yes?" Stella's ability to infuse a single word with layers  
upon layers of meaning was unmatched. Her 'yes' communicated distraction,  
annoyance, impatience, and the faintest trace of curiosity all at once,  
all in that single syllable.  
  
Trying not to be discouraged by the unwelcoming tone of _most_ of  
the layers, Ray concentrated on the barely there flash of curiosity he'd  
thought he'd seen.  
  
"Dance with me, Stel," Ray said, holding out his hand to her.  
He knew his voice had been a tad too pleading, his eyes touched with  
a hint of desperation, but he couldn't help it. The knowledge that _this_  
was the key, the moment when he'd find out if he had a chance to save  
his marriage, was scrapping his nerves to raw to fully hide his emotions.  
  
Her clear blue eyes narrowed as the curiosity disappeared entirely.   
All that was left was the annoyance and impatience. She glared up from  
her seat, ignoring Ray's hand hovering in the gulf between them until  
it wavered and fell to his side.  
  
"No." The answer was firm, without even a hint of 'maybe'.  
  
Trying not to feel it as his heart sank to his feet, Ray tried one more  
time. "C'mon, Stella, just one dance. It won't take-"  
  
Stella cut him off with another sharp look and an exasperated huff.   
"Ray, I said 'no'. I have a ton of work to do, what with the Homrick  
case going to trial tomorrow, and the Allen case the day after that."  
  
And that was it.  
  
It was over, and Ray knew it. He wasn't ready to accept it just yet,  
but he knew.  
  
It was just a matter of time.  
  
"And turn that music off," Stella snapped at his back as he  
turned to return to the living room. "I need to concentrate."  
  
The full orchestra faded into a soulful duet of guitar and female voice.  
The strains cascaded through the open glass door leading from Stella's  
apartment to the balcony overlooking the city.  
  
Stella was back in his arms, and they were dancing. They were moving  
in harmony again, lightly stepping, smoothly gliding. It was almost  
like it had been in the blissful early days of their marriage, when they  
had been so happy, so in love. Almost like it, but . . . not. It was  
vague, Ray knew, but that was as specific as he could manage - almost  
the same, but not. He knew it would have driven Fraser nuts if he were  
presented with such a statement.  
  
Something had changed. Maybe he and Stella had too much history now.  
Ray didn't know, and didn't care. He didn't make it a practice to examine  
every aspect of every situation, dismantling it and dismantling it again,  
scrutinising each moment from each possible angle, until every nuance  
was laid bare. That was Fraser's job. Ray went on his gut more often  
than not. His gut was telling him to say something. So he did.  
  
"I could stay the night." The suggestion surprised Ray. He  
hadn't consciously decided to make it.  
  
"You could." Agreeing without actually agreeing to anything.  
The statement was decidedly neutral. Pure Stella. Pure Assistant State's  
Attorney Kowalski. But it wasn't negative, either.  
  
"It would be perfect," he coaxed.  
  
"It would be a mistake. You could stay, we could make love, and  
it would be great, like a thousand times before. But tomorrow we'd be  
right back where we were this morning. Maybe a couple more regrets."  
  
Ray was vaguely surprised at how little disappointment he felt. He persisted  
more out of habit than anything else.  
  
"I love you."  
  
"I love you, too. Always will. But you know I'm right."  
  
"No, but it could be-"  
  
"I didn't say you couldn't stay."  
  
She was offering him everything he'd thought he wanted. The only thing  
he'd wanted for so long.  
  
And he didn't really want it anymore. It was . . . a revelation. One  
he didn't really know how to deal with. He'd always wanted Stella, ever  
since he was 13 years old. He didn't even remember a time when he hadn't  
wanted her, wanted her love. It made him feel - * _dunno, kinda feels  
. . . empty, good, something. I dunno._ *  
  
Where once he'd though he couldn't exist away from her, he'd now learned  
to survive without her. More than survive, actually _live_. He'd  
moved on.  
  
Stella was waiting for an answer, confidence shining in her eyes. She  
was assured of his love, secure in the knowledge that, no matter what,  
he'd always be there for her. And he would be. But he didn't really  
want her any more.  
  
He compromised by answering with a neutral "Oh" that revealed  
nothing, answered nothing, committed nothing.  
  
He didn't want her - well, to be honest, he _did_ want her. He  
wanted her with the same low grade buzz that he wanted Elaine with or  
Frannie with or any other pretty woman of his acquaintance with. But  
no more than that. The all-consuming desire of the past was gone.  
  
He loved her. Always would. But he wasn't _in_ love with her.  
Not any more. That was reserved for someone else. Someone . . . No,  
he wouldn't think of that now. He was approaching the state of complete  
peace he usually reached while dancing and- Was that someone pounding  
on the door?  
  
The music was the same, but the pounding had stopped, and Stella's apartment  
had faded into Ray's own.  
  
He was still dancing, but his arms were empty. His phantom partner lost  
her substantiality and dissipated like so much smoke. He was alone.  
  
Ray stopped dead, mid step, and let his arms drop to his sides. His  
head seemed too heavy for his neck, so he allowed his chin to sink to  
his chest and he stared at his shoes through tear clouded eyes.  
  
Alone. He was always alone.  
  
Abandoning the impromptu dance floor, formed from the space between his  
living room furniture, he went over to the window over looking the street.  
The street was empty, save for the occasional car, headlights cutting  
through the late night gloom. The street lights illuminated only in  
patches, which somehow made the street look even more empty that it would  
have already. Pressing his heated cheek against the cool glass, Ray  
searched for any sign that he wasn't alone in the world, let alone just  
in his apartment.  
  
What was that saying? Lucky at cards, unlucky at love? Ray figured  
he should take up gambling, because considering the state of his love  
life, he should stand to make a fortune. Always falling for the wrong  
people, the people he couldn't be with, the people that wouldn't love  
him back. First there was Stella, then . . . Fraser. Constable Benton  
Fraser of the RCMP. Benny. Ray tried it out in his head, but it seemed  
wrong to refer to the utterly formal Mountie by so informal a name without  
his express permission. Even silently. Fraser.  
  
Stella, the Gold Coast girl, an untouchable princess in her ivory tower.  
  
Fraser, the Mountie, the straight as an arrow, doubly untouchable Canadian  
ice prince.  
  
Fraser.  
  
The glass was getting slick beneath his cheek, and for the first time,  
Ray became aware of the hot, stinging tears sliding silently down his  
face.  
  
Alone. Always alone.  
  
And he cried.  
  
  
End.


End file.
